The subsequent anecdotes result from a daddy's realization that his little girl has grown up while he wasn't looking. In less than four years she'll be on the road without me, experiencing the freedoms and responsibilities of life. This is my way of holding onto her...if only for a little while longer.

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Monday, December 17, 2012

Cookies and I have been taking a break.
I didn’t want to do it, but sometimes, for the sake of a the relationship, you
have to agree to step back and spend some time apart from each other if you’re
ever going to be able to move forward harmoniously.

It had come to my attention that maybe,
just maybe, I’d been taking Cookies for granted. So now, like the production of
your favorite television show, we’re on hiatus.

This epiphany came a few weekends back
after the kids and I ate not one but two packages of red holiday Oreos in less
than a twenty-four hour period. The last
package I’d bought that Friday night – Brady and I had snagged three packages at
the grocery store as part of our impulse shopping – was gone by Monday.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t me who hammered out the last bag, but my son.

Any time cookies go missing from the
pantry or my wife’s secret hiding spot, the finger is always pointed in my
direction, that is, unless I’m the one doing the pointing, and the only reason
I’d be doing the pointing is if someone disobeys Dad’s Cookie Rule #1: don’t
bother leaving me a cookie package with only two cookies; the punishment will
be the same as if you’d eaten the last of the cookies, so you may as well get
your money’s worth. Kacie, being the caring soul that she is, doesn’t subscribe
to that ideology and is always sure to leave just enough to be able to say “But
I left some for you!” but not enough to really, truly enjoy. Brady, on the other
hand, operates under the notion that if one is going to complain about not
being left any cookies, then one should have beaten him to the punch and eaten
them all one’s self. That’s how my wife knew, after interrogating me about the
cookies’ mysterious disappearance, that the only other possible culprit was
Junior.

She
sat across the table from Brady, a bright light shining from behind her so that
he could not see her face. His hands were bound to the table by cuffs, restricting his movement. “Did you
eat the Oreos?” she asked Brady.

“No,” he said.

“No?”

“No.”

“Then who did?” she asked, slamming her
hand down on the table in front of her, propelling her body upward, launching
her face within inches of his.

“A ghost,” he said without flinching.
This kid was a new breed of operative, trained to remain cool under pressure.

I excused myself to the bathroom, where,
after shutting the door, I proceeded to laugh my butt off. Did I feel guilty
for bailing on my wife? Not one bit. In fact, my lack of presence in our living
room was a sign of solidarity in parenting, because laughing in front of Brady
would only encourage his orneriness, whereas laughing to the point of tears
privately allowed me to spare him from getting into further trouble from his
mother for laughing with me. Leaving also afforded me the chance to have a very
matter-of-fact conversation between me and my reflection in the mirror in which
I’d said “You, sir, make the best kids ever. Job well done.”

Later that night, after my son copped to
wiping out The Last of the Oreos – I wonder who will play me in the movie for this
family spoofed rendition of James Fenimore Cooper’s famous novel? – I thought
about how it is some things can control us so completely, or alternatively
prevent us from being able to control ourselves. There’s no question I like my
family. I like baseball. But I love Cookies, which is why I had to hit pause on
our relationship.

A lot, though, has happened in the time
since Cookies and I went our separate ways. I’ve been working seven days a
week, hoping to preoccupy my mind by focusing more on my job. Two days ago I finally
graduated college, which didn’t seem like such a great accomplishment without Cookies
there to celebrate with.

Even during an impromptu celebration/we-may-as-well-grab-something-to-eat-while-we’re-here-at-the-mall-shopping
dinner with my wife, I couldn’t stop thinking about Cookies. I tried to avoid
eye contact with Cookies, but even then could still taste its chewy texture,
its plump chocolate chips, and its perfect balance of white and chocolate icing
smothered on top in thick, zigzaggy lines. My wife encouraged me to succumb to
my inner desires, but I refused; Cookies and I had been apart so long, the last
few days that separated us were merely going to be a formality at that point -
my twenty-eight days of rehab were almost over and I was not going to let my
anxiousness ruin everything we’d been working towards.

With this being the holiday season, I
know that, for many, this is a time of family gathering and presents. For some
there’s a deeper meaning to the nostalgia, a reason for the season. For others,
it’s nothing more than a paid day off work at a time when work can be overly
demanding. But this year, for me, the Christmas will take on a whole new
meaning: it’s when my love and I will be reunited…and it’s going to feel so
good.